


Requiem

by FriendlyNonMurdering



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, POV Alternating, Talon/Brainwashing AU, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNonMurdering/pseuds/FriendlyNonMurdering
Summary: Red and Dragon know nothing of their lives other than the torture at the hands of a cruel, villainous doctor. Salvation comes unexpectedly in the form of a raid on the only home they've ever known. When left with no other choice than to strike out on their own, the reality of the world, the nightmares, and the painful memories will prove to be harder obstacles than they expected.Maybe they would have been better off without knowing that they are both murderers.





	1. Fight It

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration struck me real damn hard, thank you to [Nicholas Kaye](http://bluandorange.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful story idea.

Red

Dragon is screaming again.

He thinks, maybe, he shouldn’t be so pleased about it. Then again, maybe pleased isn’t the right word for what it is. He wouldn’t wish this on anybody. As Dragon’s screams jump an octave or two, he knows that he would not wish this on anybody, ever. It is more of grim happiness that it isn’t his turn.

His turn was yesterday. He can hardly remember what happened, but he knows that it wasn’t fun. It’s never fun. How could torture be fun? He shakes the word from his head. If someone asked him, he couldn’t define the word fun. All he knows is that it is the antithesis of what happens to him and Dragon.

His stomach growls painfully loud. After a moment, his guts chime in to let him know that he hasn’t eaten in a long time. He growls under his breath. What he wouldn’t give for a meal. He doesn’t know the name of the food that he is craving, but he knows that it’s hearty and warm. Meat wrapped in a soft casing, all dredged in a spicy red sauce.

His stomach grumbles even louder, and his mouth begins to salivate. He didn’t have a left arm to give, but he would give his right arm for it.

The train of thought drags his attention to his stump of an arm. He picks it up and examines it for God knows how many times that day. He can’t remember how it happened. Maybe it happened here. Maybe it happened outside.

He scoffs. He doesn’t know if there is an outside. He feels like there might be—he knows there is—but there’s nothing in his brain as far as memories are concerned. For all he knows, he’s lived his entire life in this place. Each day he loves through is gone only a day or two later. He sneers. He doesn’t even know if it’s been days or weeks or months or years.

The only constants are the shots, the doctor, and Dragon.

The sots come more than once a day. When he wakes up. When he occasionally eats. Before he gets a few hours of fitful sleep. They don’t hurt. He has become long use to the massive needles by now, but they still make him dizzy and loose. His body becomes as limp as a cooked noodle. It makes the capturing and carting-away processes easier on everybody.

There weren’t many things he asked for—freedom, maybe some food—but he wished that she wasn’t as common of an occurrence as she is. Perhaps every few days, or every other week, but that was still too many times for his liking. She is deceptively kind. He may not know his name or where he came from, but he knows that her kind words mean nothing. She can sugarcoat everything, but he knows better. The needles and scalpels and measurements can only lead to pain.

Aside from the rare meal, the only positive thing in his life is Dragon.

Speak of the devil, Dragon’s painful wailing kicks in again.

He winces. His gut churns with something other than hunger. It burns at his insides but makes him feel cold at the same time. He knows that it is guilt, but he doesn’t know how he knows. If he knows the feeling, doesn’t that mean he has been guilty before? He wonders what he could have done to be guilty.

His thoughts tumble away from him, then. He can never keep his focus for long stretches of time, anyways. What does one more time matter? Eventually, Dragon will come back. He will get his shot; he might get a meal. Tomorrow, he will be taken away.

“Are you there?”

Dragon’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. He furrows his eyebrows. What had he been thinking of? He can’t remember now. He licks his lips, suddenly realizing how dry his mouth is. He would kill for a drink of water.

“Yes,” he finally responds.

Dragon hums. His voice sounds hoarse. Not that he can be blamed for that. It’s hard to hold back the screams when they are whisked away to be picked at to the doctor’s content.

He knows where this conversation is going. There are few comforts that either of them has.

“Tell me about your tattoo,” he says.

Dragon takes a while. Dragon shifts. Dragon groans.

He waits for Dragon. If Dragon needs to take his time, then he can have it. There’s no need for Dragon to be rushed for an answer. He knows what Dragon is going to say either way.

“It hurts,” Dragon says. “No… it doesn’t hurt. It stings. Vibrates. Like holding a purring cat.”

Neither he nor Dragon knows what it feels like to hold a cat, let alone one that is purring. Either way, it seems like the right thing to say, day after day.

“I can feel the images shifting,” Dragon continued. “There is something under my skin. It moves. I think it is the storm clouds. They have lightning and rain. The blue is stronger than ever today.”

“I wish I could see it,” he responds. “I bet it’s real pretty. Say, how’re those dragons, Dragon?” he snickers to himself.

He can hear Dragon groaning, but this time it isn’t in pain. He grins because he knows that Dragon isn’t hurting too badly if he’s feigning being upset with him.

“They are the same as always, Red,” Dragon mutters. He sounds fed up, but Red doesn’t mind. Fed up is better than suffering through Hell.

“You mean to say they ain’t crawled out of your skin to rescue us yet?” Red asks.

“Unfortunately, no,” is Dragon’s dry response.

Red knows that maybe he should think of different questions to ask. But there’s not much for either of them to talk about. The weather is a bust. Their pasts are mysteries. The things that happen on that cold, sterile table are off limits. Not that they’d ever said such a thing to each other, but it seemed right. After all, they only had the two of them as a means of escape from those gloved hands.

“Darn,” Red says it like it came from a script. Maybe their conversations aren’t all that interesting, but they provide a sense of normalcy and order to the otherwise insufferable, painful days.

“I think that I will rest now,” Dragon murmurs.

Red can barely hear him, but he knows the words were going to happen sooner or later. No one, not even the strongest of men could withstand the aftereffects of the torture for very long.

“You do that, Dragon,” Red encourages. After all, it won’t be long until he falls asleep as well. Perhaps after they come by with his shot and meal.

Dragon falls quiet, aside from his distressed breathing. Red knows that Dragon isn’t asleep, but Red is unwilling to bother him. He asked about the tattoo on Dragon’s arm to distract him for a moment. If a moment a day is all that Red can give, he will give it without fail.

Red busies himself by counting the tiles on the ceiling. Then he counts the spots on the tiles on the ceiling. It isn’t until he’s drawing imaginary faces in the spots on the tiles on the ceiling that they come by with his shot.

Red didn’t realize they were there until there’s the familiar pinch in his arm. He has enough awareness in him to look over at the fuzzy figures administering the drug into his system. Their words are a blur. One has a holoscreen open and types something into the display. They laugh. They leave him. They did not bring any food.

 

_His entire body is sore, and it’s only made worse when he is dragged through the hallways and back to somewhere. He wished he knew where, but his brain is so fried that it wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other. As they pass by cell after cell, each one empty, he lets his thoughts turn to what happened. It hurts him, even more, to think about it as if the memories alone can cause him pain._

_He remembers them wanting to see if he could walk. He made it a few steps before his body gave out. The doctor tsked, wrote it down on an old-fashioned notepad, and then waved her hand at him and the men escorting him. They didn’t take their time to strap him to a gurney, deciding instead to drag him away._

_His bare feet trail on the ground. They’re sore as all hell, and he’s sure that the top layer of skin had all but rubbed away at this point. His head lolls so he can look at the damage, but it’s impossible for his eyes to focus on anything at the moment._

_He rolls his head to one side as they pass one of the many cells. Sitting against the wall is a man. He’s missing both of his legs from the knees down, but there are leg-shaped boots to one side of his room. He can’t blame the disheveled man; he’s sure that he looks much the same. The empty look in the man’s eyes, staring dumbly ahead, is what gets to him and gnaws at his stomach._

_He’s positive that that man is the other one who screams when it isn’t his turn for the day. He wonders what they do to that man to make him scream so loudly, and look so broken. Although, he’s not sure that he’s in much of a better space._

_His aching body is made even more aching when he is dumped onto the uncomfortable bed in the corner of his cell. Part of him—most of him—doesn’t realize that he has been let go until the men are long gone. He scans his cell. There’s no doctor, and no needle to be pressed into the crook of his arm._

_Slowly, he gets up and groans as he travels to the wall that separates him from his neighbor. The hard-light bars keep him from trying to slip out into the hallway. There’s an unbidden thought in his head that hard-light can be extremely painful. He doesn’t know how he knows this._

_He sinks to the floor, with his back pressed against the wall much in the same way that the man was._

_“When did you get here?” he asks the man._

_At first, the man doesn’t respond. When he does, his words are cracked and accented. “I do not know,” he says. “I think that I have always been here.”_

_He hums in response to the man. “I think I might have been too,” he agrees. “Can’t believe I never saw you before.”_

_“Are you the other one?” the man asks. “The one who screams when I am not?”_

_He can’t help but puff out a small, airy laugh from his nose. “Seems like it,” he answers._

_It is now the man’s turn to hum. “What is your name?” the man asks._

_The color drains from his face at the question. He knows what a name is. He feels like he should have one. He knows that the doctor and her men all have names. He can’t remember his own. Does he have a name?_

_“Sorry, partner, I uh—I don’t know,” he says. “What about you?”_

_“I do not know, either,” the man says._

_They both hear the frowns in the other’s voice. It’s not hard to catch._

_“What, uh, what could I call you?” he asks._

_The man is quiet for even longer than the first time. At first, he thinks that the man didn’t hear him. Then, the man finally speaks, in a soft voice. “Dragon.”_

_“Dragon?” he repeats, testing the word on his tongue. “Why’s that?”_

_“There is a tattoo, on my left arm,” Dragon explains. “There are dragons in the image. They look strong and powerful. Perhaps, if I adopt their name, I will adopt their strength, as well.”_

_He liked Dragon’s answer. He liked it a lot. What a clever man he was next to._

_“Is there anything that I may call you?” Dragon asks._

_He has to think about it for a long time. Now he knows why Dragon took so long to answer him the first time. It is hard to think of something to be called. He parses through his spare and fleeting memories. None of them mean anything. They are all broken and shapeless, mostly color. The only recurring theme is red. Red wheels, red rocks, red sand, red braids of hair protruding from the back of a head. Red spraying from the end of a gun. Everything is bathed in red. He doesn’t know where the images came from, or if they came from anywhere at all. What if they aren’t real?_

_“Red,” he says at length._

_“Why is that?” Dragon asks, repeating Red’s question from earlier._

_Red’s mouth floods with the coppery tang of blood. He has to check himself over once, twice, a third time, to make sure that he hadn’t bitten his tongue or that he wasn’t coughing it up._

_"It’s my favorite color,” he lies. It could be his favorite color, but there’s no way for him to know for sure._

_“It is a pleasure to meet you, Red,” Dragon says._

_“The pleasure’s all mine, Dragon,” Red says._

 

“Get up,” someone demands.

Red’s eyes are all but glued shut. His sleep was fitful, plagued by names and faces that he doesn’t recognize. Something kicks Red awake. He glowers at the intruder in his cell. 

The bone white owl mask is a familiar face to Red. The wearer doesn’t stop by often. He only comes around just often enough for Red to associate it with a gravelly voice and usually—almost all of the time—absence of pain.

Today, however, the mask-wearer bears a needle. Red recognizes it. How could he not? It’s one of the regularities in his life. The mask-wearer being the deliverer of the shot is not regular, though.

The mask-wearer grabs Red’s arm and yanks it up.

“It’s less than usual,” the mask grumbles. “Take advantage of it.”

Red must make some sort of noise because the mask huffs. Whether it is annoyance or assent, Red can’t tell.

“She’s going to do surgery today. An implant in your eye.” The shot is over, and the mask looks at Red. Red can almost see the warm brown of unfamiliar eyes in the black pits. “They’re coming to get you today.” The mask pauses. He glances both ways and then sets a clawed hand on Red’s cheek. “Fight it, kid,” he says. Softer this time, “Fight it, Jess.”

The mask stands up, his dark cloak billowing.

Then he leaves.

Red sinks back into the depths.


	2. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iiiiii did not realize how long it had been since I posted this. I'm very sorry about that. Weirdly enough, half the reason I got nervous was because I didn't know if people still headcanon Hanzo's legs as prosthetics despite what Blizzard says?

Dragon

Dragon was awake when the man in the mask approached Red and spoke to him. The words left Dragon with more questions than ever. Why was he giving Red less than the normal amount of drugs? What kind of implant was Red getting in his eye? What was Jess?

He knew he should have spent more time considering the answers to his questions, but he was exhausted after his own long day of experiments and tests. His tattoo, throbbing from his chest to his wrist, was a testament to the grueling time in the doctor’s office and operating room.

Dragon’s mind drifted away from him, lingering on that final word the man said.

Jess.

By the time he wakes up again—or maybe he was awake the whole time—Red is already gone. Dragon doesn’t need to ask for Red to know that he is already gone. Red doesn’t need to speak—or not speak, in this case—for Dragon to tell that he is alone.

Dragon shifts on his uncomfortable bed, that feels more like cardboard than an actual mattress. He tries not to think too hard about what the feeling of a real mattress is. He has other, bigger, more important things to focus on.

As if anything in this room is all that important. As far as Dragon is concerned, the only important aspect of his life is staying alive. And, perhaps, Red staying alive, as well.

Slowly, Dragon drags himself to the edge of his bed. He sits up carefully. The first time he’d tried to do it on his own, Dragon fell over, his balance severely off.

He presses his fingers slowly down his legs, wincing at the tight muscles underneath the pads of his fingers. He couldn’t say when the habit started, but it feels nice and seems right. As far as Dragon is concerned, his legs have always been gone below the knee. He never strays very far into the spiral of thoughts surrounding his shortened appendages. He sees the boot-like prosthetics across his room. Or, more properly, his cell. Dragon is not one for looking at this situation as lightly as Red does. He likes to make light at any and all times.

“I mean, we’re sleepin’ here, ain’t we?” Red’s voice exclaims in Dragon’s head.

Dragon sighs and closes his eyes to shut out Red’s voice. Right now, it hurts to think about Red. He can’t hear Red screaming, but in the end, that doesn’t mean that Red is any better off. If Red is asleep for the procedure, t might be because it’s far worse than Dragon can even imagine. 

As he allows his wandering thoughts to trail away from Red, Dragon continues to press into the muscles of his legs. In some ways, its soothing. Doing it reminds him of somebody, despite that not making any sense at all. Other than Red and the few others that Dragon has limited interactions with, Dragon has no memories of individuals. His life is made of five people. Himself, Red, the doctor, the man in the mask, and a young girl that occasionally comes by to poke and prod at he and Red.

As far as the young girl goes, Dragon knows absolutely nothing about her. She is as much of a mystery to him as he is to himself. The man in the mask, however, has always seemed partial to Red, from what few memories Dragon can sift through. Before Red was taken, that thought is even more obvious. He gives Red less than the normal dose of whatever they’re being injected with, and he calls him Jess.

The name niggles hard in the back of Dragon’s thoughts. He knows that he should know it, but there is no evidence backing up his misplaced feelings. Perhaps the man in the mask has called Red ‘Jess’ before. For the time being, that is as good of an answer as Dragon will get. The mystery of ‘Jess’ is—sourly, wrongly—solved. One less thing for Dragon to worry about.

Dragon breathes deep in through his nose, holds it, and then lets the breath out slowly. He does so many times over until he no longer needs to consciously remind himself of the pattern. Whatever intruding thoughts attempt to break through are swept away by soft, fluffy clouds. Clouds are an anomaly to Dragon, he knows how they work and what they are, but he has never seen one. They are there in his thoughts all the same, and he does not question them.

In the edges of his mind’s eye, the clouds darken. They swirl from their pristine, bone-white and curl into navy and black. Dragon mentally checks himself for any obvious signs of stress, aside from the usual lingering presence of doom, but he is as calm as can be for a man in his situation. He breathes in and allows the storm clouds to invade his thoughts. Between the clouds, sparks of blue lightning dance. They twist and turn about each other, and begin to make their way closer to Dragon. As calm as ever, Dragon also allows the lightning to approach him. The strikes light up flashes of bright pink that carry a delicate, floral smell on the wind.

Thunder rolls in with the lightning, threatening to deafen Dragon. If it would drown out Red’s screaming and the questions rattling his brain, Dragon would gladly lose his hearing. If he could no longer hear his friend’s pain, Dragon’s life would be that much simpler.

“Shit!”

Dragon peels his bleary eyes open. Friend? Was Red a friend? His definition of friend is loose, at best.

His attention is drawn to the front of his cell. Time slows down as Red slips from the grasp of the guards carrying him. He has bandages covering both eyes, but one side branches off to wrap around his head as well.

Red’s face smacks the ground hard. The only sign he gives that he is conscious is the low groan he lets out.

“You idiot!” one of the guards snarls. “She’ll fucking kill us!”

“He’s fucking heavy, alright?” his companion growls back.

The two stoop and hook their hands under Red’s armpits. Both guards, and Dragon, wince at the seeping blood and an unknown yellowish fluid staining Red’s bandage over his eye. Dragon’s gut wrenches for Red, but there is nothing that he can do, no matter what he might want to do.

The guards shuffle Red in their arms until he is secure in their grasp once more.

“We wouldn’t have to deal with this if she didn’t insist on him walking on his own,” the bulkier guard grumbles.

“Is it all that absurd for her to want to see?” the other asks as they begin to move again, dragging a moaning Red out of Dragon’s sight. “Motherfucker rolls around in a fight like a kid. Never would have thought he was an older guy.”

Dragon closes his eyes and listens to what the guard is saying. He files the information away and prays that it will stick. There’s no pattern to what his brain wants to keep and what it doesn’t, but those two details seem incredibly important to Dragon.

Red is an older man and he fights.

The fighting comment stirs up more questions than Dragon will ever have answers for. Frustration boils deep in his gut. Where does Red fight? Who is he fighting? Is that part of what happens to him every other day? Dragon furrows his eyebrows. There’s no use for stewing over it.

“Does he need nanites?” one of the guards asks. Dragon didn’t pay enough attention to their voices to know which is speaking.

“Nah, Reaper gave them to him before the procedure,” the other replies.

“Fucking freak,” the first sneers.

A loud _smack!_ followed by a sharp “ow!”.

“Are you an idiot?” The two walk past Dragon’s cell once more, presumably done with Red. One is rubbing his arm, he must be the one that was struck. “If he hears that, you’re getting a shotgun shell to the face, and I’m not going to stop him.”

“You’re really that afraid of him?” the one that was smacked asks. As they walk, their voices fade away.

Dragon strains his ears until he can hear nothing else When they’re finally gone, he takes a breath, holds it, and lets it out through his nose slowly, loudly. From the cell next to him. Red’s breathing is rough and pained. Every few moments, he groans. Every fewer moments, he whimpers. The whimpers hurt Dragon’s chest, making it feel tight in ways that it never has. He couldn’t explain it if he tried.

With the sole urge to block out Red’s whimpering, and since he is in no condition to speak—if he was he would already be chattering up a storm—Dragon permits the clouds to take over his thoughts once more. His intention is to get a few hours of rest before he is taken away, too. 

“D’g’n…”

Dragon almost can’t recognize his own name coming out of Red’s mouth. He slurs badly, and the other mumbles Red gets out are entirely unintelligible. Dragon takes it as a good sign that Red is trying to be his usual, talkative self, but he would really rather that Red sleep off the drugs and no doubt, the pain from his operation.

Figuring that Red will give up soon enough if he doesn’t get a response, Dragon stays silent. The man needs his rest, and as foolish as he is, he won’t figure it out easily. Any attention he gets will be like throwing fuel onto a flame.

Red, despite Dragon’s best efforts to ignore him, continues to mumble and groan. Occasionally, he sounds like he might be getting close to forming words, but he never quite gets there. Dragon has never been put under before, as far as he knows. He could never imagine what Red is going through. 

After a while, Red gives up, like Dragon knew he would. Dragon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Red has finally fallen asleep, and it lifts a weight off Dragon’s shoulders. Said strained shoulders sag happily.

And then Dragon hears something concerning.

At first, he can’t decipher it. Red rolling around on his bed, perhaps. Shuffling that sounds suspiciously like a drunk man stumbling in the streets late at night. The drunk man’s feet slip out from under him, and he collapses with a terrible thud and a pained cry.

Dragon’s eyes shoot open.

“Red!” he shouts. He wishes he had gotten up earlier and put on the metal prosthetics. Sure, it burned and stung worse than his tattoo, but his heart feels about ready to burst from his chest in worry for Red. 

Red whimpers and sniffles. Dragon’s eyebrows pinch together. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know that there is anything that he can do.

“Hanzo,” Red pathetically cries.

Then he is silent.

Dragon sits in the silence, his heart hammering against the back of his ribcage.

 

_Reaper stands just inside the glowing, humming bars of Jesse’s cage. Behind him and the bars, a near army stands, poised and ready for anything. Aside from Hanzo, Reaper knows Jesse the best and he knows that Jesse will not go down without a fight. He’d have to be hit by a horse tranquilizer before Jesse McCree ever went quietly. It’s only been a few days since he and Hanzo have been captured, but that doesn’t mean Jesse is any less sick or weary of the treatments._

_Reaper shifts, and Jesse shifts to counter him. There are no sudden movements from either side, and no one in the vicinity is making a single noise. Jesse may be down a gun, flashbangs, and an arm, but that doesn’t make him any less of a threat. If anything, it makes him more dangerous than before. With his and Hanzo’s lives on the line, he’s willing to risk anything._

_Jesse sneers at Reaper’s mask, sneers at the man who once taught him that a dead man has nothing to lose and is the most dangerous on the battlefield. As if Jesse hadn’t already known that. He’d lost everything when Reyes picked him up, and now that man was ready to take everything from him once more._

_“She gonna make us into freaks like you?” Jesse spits. His fingers twitch, ready for the quick comeback or for Reaper to shift directly into his face._

_“That’s a low blow, McCree,” Reaper drawls. “I taught you better than that.”_

_Jesse scoffs. “You didn’t teach me nothin’. The way I recall it, it was a man who taught me what I know. And that man is long dead.”_

_Jesse can hear Reaper rolling his eyes from behind the mask. He feels like he’s back in that interrogation room, ready to get smacked around for being dragged into something he had no choice in. Prospects in Santa Fe weren’t—aren’t—great._

_Reaper absently fiddles with the syringe in his hand. Jesse can all but see the nanites that are swimming in the thick, viscous substance that houses them. He doesn’t need to be told they’re nanites to know what they are. He knows how that woman works, and she doesn’t make things harder than they need to be. Nanites are the best way to alter somebody._

_Jesse sneers at the thought of her, too. To think he’d once worked with these two bastards not so long ago. He never would have thought that, of the four of them that headed Blackwatch, Genji would be the one to escape with the least amount of blood on his hands._

_“This would be easier if you would cooperate,” Reaper grumbles. His voice grates on each of Jesse’s nerves, like sandpaper being dragged up his spine._

_“It ain’t happenin’,” Jesse retorts. “I’ll fight’cha ‘til I’m dead.”_

_Jesse can’t see it, but he can imagine Reaper’s eyes rolling once more. Maybe he frowns. At one point in time, Jesse might have backed down and respected that expression. Now, Reaper isn’t in control. Jesse doesn’t have to listen to a damn thing he says._

_“Aren’t you worried about your friend?” Reaper asks._

_Jesse isn’t sure if the use of the word friend is intentional or not. Sure, his and Hanzo’s relationship isn’t exactly public news, but he sure thought they were more obvious than that. Although, Jesse would put up a fight like the one he did for any of his friends in Overwatch. Maybe the perceived distance between them would spare them some heartache._

_“He can handle himself,” Jesse replies. He pointedly doesn’t think about the last time he saw Hanzo, being dragged away without his prosthetics. His heart clenches tight at the mental image. Talon are cowards._

_“He’s undergone something life-changing, McCree,” Reaper says. “If you don’t want it to be more painful than it needs to be, just shut up and come with us.” He pauses. “These things are always easier if you go willingly.”_

_“Like you?” Jesse asks. “Was it easier, gettin’ yer insides fucked up, just ‘cause you wanted it to happen?”_

_Reaper’s shoulders tense. Jesse knows he’s gone for another low blow, but he’s struck a nerve._

_“Time’s up, McCree,” Reaper snarls._

_Jesse can barely keep track of the man once his body fades into smoke. Some of it stays stuck together, but for the most part, Jesse’s cell is enveloped in black mist. His heart thuds as he tracks the mist, trying to predict where it will reform into Overwatch’s biggest threat._

_Aha._

_The mist begins to reform to Jesse’s side. He tucks his body up, and dives into a roll that will bring him away from the mist._

_When Jesse springs up, it’s to the sight of Reaper’s mask, and the terrible stab of a thick needle into his arm. Jesse howls in pain and wrenches himself away, but the plunger was already pushed by the time he gets himself out of reach. Jesse’s heart thuds wildly against the back of his ribs. He rips the needle from his arm, and hurls it across the cell. It shatters against the wall, but he can already feel the nanites crawling through him like tiny ants. Impossible, he knows, but he feels it all the same._

_“You’ve gotten sloppy,” Reaper scolds._

_“Forgive a guy for runnin’ on no sleep and less food,” Jesse hisses. He can’t help but scratch at his arm, desperate to claw any of the nanites into him. “The hell’re these programmed for?” he snaps. “Gonna wipe my memories?”_

_“No, that comes later,” Reaper deadpans._

_Jesse curls his nose. If it were any other situation, he might have laughed. That was impossible. He spits at Reaper’s feet. The black boots move back an inch in disdain._

_“All you’re needed for is bloodwork,” Reaper says. “Stop being a stubborn bull and walk willingly, and this will be easier on all of us.”_

_“Hell naw,” Jesse says. “Ain’t givin’ you more blood than you fuckers already spilled.”_

_Reaper’s clawed fingers clench into tight fists. “Fine. Pass out from exhaustion. Then you’ll be easier to deal with.”_

_With a flourish of his cape, Reaper twists on his heel and exits Jesse’s cage. His group of Talon grunts follow cautiously behind, maintaining a few safe feet of space._

_Once they’re gone, Jesse rubs at his chin. His blood is thrumming, and it doesn’t help that he has no idea what the nanites are going to do to him. He desperately wants to know—who wouldn’t?—but for once, he might be better off not knowing what the hell is inside of him._

_Not much time passes, although Jesse can’t be sure, before a few guards are approaching his cell. Jesse can also hear Moira’s voice, and it sets his hairs on end all over his body._

_“I’m not passed out yet, if that’s what you were hoping for,” Jesse calls._

_“This isn’t about you,” Moira calls back easily._

_Jesse curls his lip. She probably had his vitals monitored, she would know when he was out. Slowly, he gets to his feet. He approaches the front of his cell, but is careful to avoid getting too close to the dangerous hard light bars._

_They hum as he approaches, loud enough to be a bother. He peers down the hall as best as he can, and spots two guards and Moira supporting a fourth body between them. He may be wearing a white medical robe, but Jesse could recognize those legs and that hair anyway._

_“Hanzo?” he calls out. He wants to say something more intimate, but if they don’t know the extent of his and Hanzo’s relationship, he wants to keep it that way._

_Hanzo doesn’t respond to his name, which is somewhat worrying. He is focused firmly on the ground, putting one shaky foot in front of the other. Moira softly encourages him, and occasionally taps away at a sheet of notes open on her holoscreen._

_“Hanzo,” Jesse tries again, louder this time just in case._

_That time, Hanzo looks up, but he furrows his eyebrows and frowns at Jesse. Jesse’s heart cries out for Hanzo, wondering what’s going through his head. Maybe he, too, knows that they should keep their relationship quiet._

_As Hanzo and his ensemble shakily approach, Hanzo looks up to Jesse again. His eyes are dark. There isn’t a single ounce of recognition in them. Jesse’s heart beats a little faster. Hanzo furrows his eyebrows once more, and then looks away._

_Jesse’s eyebrows furrow as well. He swallows hard, but doesn’t say anything as the small group continue to pass his cell._

_Jesse can’t say for sure, and he laughs at himself for even thinking of it, but Reaper’s words bash their way into the forefront of his thoughts._

_“No, that comes later.”_

**Author's Note:**

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